Low Budget Michael

First I stalk them with a pinhole
from the dive-shop to the Presidential Suite
where I prop a tripod on a block of wood
in the corner. This is their first time
and they need teaching. She’s a big girl
and I tell her to shake her ass so it blurs
in the camera lens like a wind-up toy.
They laugh too much so I tell them
to shut up. His dick has folds of skin
like an older man. I tell him to strap on
a gorilla mask and then to dribble spit
through the mouth-hole so it drips down
to the ground. I want the old classics,
him with the Chuukese hammer,
her with cuts in her arms, quiet puffs
of sound in the camera mic, the real look
of her eyes filling up like she might cry
happy tears. I used to love when screams
popped through the screen and maxed out
and went silent. It could surprise you.
It could get you to jump from your chair.
The little room, the bleached lighting,
the old sticky traps stacked halfway
to the ceiling, a red cloth tossed on the mat.
Saying, put your hand here, bend this way,
crawl like this, close to the nails,
until the skin turns raw. There are girls
I’ve had with long, braided hair
hanging to the ground, ready for anything.
There are girls I’d get to the compound
drunk on tuba, who’d come to the jungle,
and we’d duck the shadows of taro leaves,
watch the moon die behind the reef
and their gold teeth would glow.
This is their first time so I let them hug.
I let them kiss with just their lips.
I tell them I’m rolling but I’m not.
I tell them to almost smile, to twist
their faces together so they touch.